


Thirty Days of Loving You

by biswholocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, A wee bit of Violence, Angst, Animal Ears, Arguing, Birthdays, Cat Ears, Catlock, Coats, Comfort, Conventions, Cooking, Cosplay, Crime Scenes, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dancing, Data pertaining to John Watson is Very Important, Dates, Dirty Dancing, Drag Queens, Even More Cuddling, Experiments, Experiments in the kettle are Not Good, Fluff, Holding Hands, Honey, Ice Cream, John gets bored too, Jumpers, Kigurumis, Kissing, Lazy Days, M/M, Making Up, Mentions of Suicide, Mornings, Sherlock doesn't like mornings, Sherlock doesn't understand cosplay, Sherlock is not always nice, Sherlock wears John's jumpers, Shopping, Sleepiness, Snogging, Spooning, but not a lot, careful for blood, cosplaying, formal wear, gen - Freeform, getting married, hot days, movies - Freeform, pre slash, sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:23:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 15,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1613204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biswholocked/pseuds/biswholocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There were certainly many things, Sherlock mused, that he was fascinated by. He hadn’t, however, found anything quite as interesting as John Watson.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holding Hands

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of my fills for the prompts on the [30 day OTP challenge](http://30dayotpchallenge.deviantart.com/journal/30-Day-OTP-Challenge-LIST-325248585). Mostly just short little drabbles.

“God.”

John had been a soldier. He had been a doctor, he’d seen the battlefield of London at the side of Sherlock Holmes. and in that time he’d seen a lot of blood and gore and terror. This crime scene was one of the worst.

There was blood, everywhere; it covered the walls and floor and caused the room to smell like copper. John stopped in the doorway of the butcherhouse (noting the irony of bloody murders in a butcherhouse) and Lestrade gave a sympathetic look over his shoulder.

“I know mate,” he said somberly. “My reaction as well.”

“Come on then John,” Sherlock said from behind, making John jump slightly as the taller man swooshed past him, coat fluttering dramatically. “What do you observe?”

John did not want to do this today. “Blood,” he replied tonelessly, causing that bright gaze to narrow back on him instead of the body of a large, burly man Sherlock was crouched by.

“Yes…” Sherlock agreed, slowly, and turned his head to look around the room. “Though most definitely not all human. Pig and probably a large quantity of bovine is what most of this is.”

John raised an eyebrow. “And that makes it better somehow?”

“Considering the fact that your negative response was centered around the presumption that it was all human blood, yes. Now come here and tell me if you notice anything about this body.”

Sighing, John stepped into the room and knelt beside Sherlock, being careful not to put his knee on the floor. He looked at the man and tried to think like Sherlock; John know that it was a useless exercise in some ways, but he had to admit it helped him see a bit more.

“He doesn’t have a five o’clock shadow,” John remarked offhandedly, before gently turning the man’s head to either side. “So he was probably killed early to mid morning- rigor is consistent with that timing. No cuts or injections in the neck, so the blood must have been drained...here,” he finished, as he unbuttoned the plaid shirt on the body to expose a large gash across the stomach.

“Good! Not on the same level of me, of course,” Sherlock stated as he stood up, “but still, very good. Lestrade,” he bellowed. The DI turned and looked at Sherlock, his expression a mixture of exasperation and hope that he’d get some answers.

“Got anything?” he asked.

Sherlock snorted. “Of course, Lestrade- only everything that Anderson and that idiotic forensic team of yours missed. I’ve got four ideas so far, John and I will have to do some investigating but I’m certain I’ll be down two once we visit some of the other butchers in the area and a priest.” And with that, the detective twirled on his heel and walked out, calling for John as he went.

“Wait, Sherlock!” Lestrade called out. “Who is our victim!”

Sherlock’s head popped back through the doorway. “Oh for God’s sakes Lestrade. He’s a smoker about a year and a half away from a heart attack who has a penchant for chips and too much red meat, as well as an alarming affinity for plaid. I think you’ll find his name to be Gordon Jameson, a handyman who lives in one of the flats down the street. Now John, let’s go. Butchers and priests, remember?”

With a grin (because it really was infectious, his excitement), John waved to Lestrade and quickly followed after Sherlock. Once they were out on the street, the wild eyed detective seized John’s hand and looked at him, the black hair being tossed about every which way by the wind.

“The game is on, John!” he exclaimed, still clinging to John’s hand as he hailed a taxi, a beaming smile on his face. 


	2. Cuddling Somewhere

John slumped on the sofa with a sigh, relieved to be off his feet. They’d just finished up a case that had seen them running around London for the past week and while it was enjoyable, John was glad that he could finally get some sleep. Letting his spine sink further into the cushions he toed off his shoes before lazily picking up the remote and turning on the telly-it was one in the morning, so it was all crap, but John couldn’t be arsed to care as his eyes slipped closed.

He could feel himself drifting off, the sounds of the people on the telly blending together in the background; he was just about to actually fall asleep when he was jerked awake by a weight landing on his lap.

“Whaa?” John fumbled for a moment, looking down to see a headful of curls on his thighs.

“Sherlock. What are you doing?” he sighed.

“Trying to get comfortable,” came the muffled response. John sighed again and ran his fingers through the soft black hair before nudging Sherlock’s shoulder.

“C’mon, up for a mo,” he encouraged, finally succeeding in getting the grump to stand up to the side of the sofa. John scooted down so that he was laying on the sofa. Sherlock stood with his arms crossed, looking a bit peeved.

John raised an eyebrow and reached up to lightly tug on Sherlock’s wrist. “Alright, now you can flop over on me,” he said jokingly. Sherlock proceeded to collapse onto John, the weight not uncomfortable and, for once, free of elbows. After a few moments of adjusting they found the perfect position, with Sherlock’s head tucked under John’s chin, one leg dangling off the side of the couch and the other stuffed into the back.  The gangly man heaved a contented sigh and melted into John, his breathing evening out. John felt the soft press of lips onto his collarbone and smiled, carding his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair in return and allowed his eyes to close again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is kind of short...I wrote it just before going to sleep and really just needed some fluff. I'm thinking about making a fic solely about cuddling, but it would definitely be after the 30 day OTP challenge is over.


	3. Watching a Movie

To be fair, John had tried to take Sherlock out on customary dates- it just never seemed to work out. Their dinners turned into chases after murderers or thieves, or being tossed out because Sherlock made a particularly sensitive deduction. Movies...well. Sherlock never lasted long in a cinema.

But John wanted to do something...normal. Not because he didn’t like the craziness of their lives, but because for them, normal would be a novelty, something special. Ruffling his newspaper, John came to a decision. They were going to do something date like.

“Sherlock,”  he called into the kitchen, where his flatmate was doing god knows what with cow eyes and pig tongue.

“What John,” came the distracted reply.

“How do you feel about...doing normal couple things?”

“What?” Sherlock sounded distracted.

“Normal things. Like...having a movie night in, or something.”

“Yes, certainly, fine John.” The clinking of beakers filled the flat while John waited for the inevitable.

“Wait, what?”

* * *

 

“This movie is woefully inaccurate,” Sherlock complained from beside John. “Can’t we just skip to the end credits and the part where you and I start snogging? It would be much more efficient.” he continued.

John huffed, a bit amused, but kept his eyes on the screen. “Sherlock, you agreed to a date-like activity, and this is what I chose. Besides- James Bond is supposed to be inaccurate- that’s what makes it interesting. And no, I’m not skipping to the end, because I want to watch it and the snogging is better when you anticipate it.”

Sherlock crossed his arms and glowered at John for a moment before giving in. “Fine.” A pause, and then laid sideways, his head in John’s lap. Since that first time a few weeks ago, John had gotten more accustomed to having a lapful of Sherlock than he ever thought he would be, Sherlock’s head was warm, and one of John’s hands dropped into the curls to idly weave his fingers through them as he watched the movie. And yes, perhaps it’s a bit fantastical, but he still enjoys it. Sherlock, to his credit, is mostly quiet, though he sometimes lets out a snort of derision or a string of deductions about the actors. (Apparently the femme fatale was an alcoholic who chain smoked and was sleeping with the director.) Sherlock also sometimes let out a purr when John’s fingers ran over a particularly sensitive spot, making John smile a bit, that the madman was relaxing for him, John Watson, and letting him anywhere near his hair.

And when the end credits were over, when Sherlock sat up and curled his fingers into John’s hair and softly pushed his mouth against John’s, tongue winding lazily through his mouth, John just grinned briefly before leaning into the kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the full prompt was actually "gaming/watching a movie" but since I can't see Sherlock (or John for that matter) gaming, I went with movies.


	4. On A Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because while their planned dates get interrupted, their spontaneous ones go rather well.

People always assumed that Sherlock was the one who was the most restless of the two of them. And to a certain extent, Sherlock mused, they were correct; Sherlock’s boredom surely manifested itself in a far more obvious form, but John. When John got restless, bored (and he did, perhaps not as soon as Sherlock but it happened, after a few weeks of stagnation) he cleaned incessantly. He’d pace through the flat tidying everything, try and take more shifts at the surgery. More cups of tea than usual would appear, do their time, and be placed in the sink, where he would spend time at the end of the day cleaning them by hand just to have something to do. One time, when there was almost a month between any significant cases, his tremor had made a reappearance (though Sherlock’s actions after he noticed were stimulating enough to make sure it disappeared as soon as possible).

“God. Never thought I’d say this but I almost understand why you shoot the wall sometimes.” John’s voice cut through Sherlock’s thoughts and jerked him from his mind palace back onto the sofa of 221B, the scent of leather filling his head and the blanket brushing against his lower legs. He cracked an eye at the remark, reminding him of why he was thinking about John’s restlessness to begin with. It had been two weeks since their last case and John (oatmeal cable knit jumper plain shirt black trousers socks with...stripes? fingers tapping the arm of his chair) was near his saturation point with boredom. With a graceful movement, John swung up out of his chair and stalked (there really wasn’t any other word for the way his legs moved) to the door, tossing Sherlock’s coat at him so that it landed on his feet before pulling on his own leather jacket.

Sherlock half sat up on the couch. “What are you doing?”

John turned around, already halfway out the door. “We’re going out. I’m tired of being cooped up in here. C’mon,” he said, gesturing to Sherlock’s coat impatiently. “Let’s go.”

Sherlock scrambled up and threw on his coat, hurrying after John, who was already halfway down the stairs. This was new. it was always Sherlock who dragged them out of the flat- now that it was John, Sherlock found himself cataloguing every piece of data from the way his own heart was beating with anticipation to the sound of John’s shoes on the steps. The weather outside was crisp, but not unpleasantly cold with a clear blue sky as Sherlock finally caught up to John’s side.

“Where are we going?” Sherlock inquired, for once not being able to deduce the answer. (He could certainly deduce the possibilities: Tesco’s, Angelo’s, perhaps a park or maybe JOhn was just having a worse time than usual at hailing a cab and wanted to go to Bart’s, but there wasn’t really any way of knowing for sure, not with this new version of John who was even more unpredictable than usual.)

“I don’t know. Around. Here,” John said, making a sudden turn into Regent’s Park. There were a few people out, but not so many as to make the sidewalks feel congested, and they walked quietly side by side, elbows and arms sometimes brushing against each other. It was..nice. Sherlock had plenty of data points, from passerby to vendors, and John seemed to be breathing more easily now that he was out of the flatt. A gentle tug on the right sleeve of his coat pulled his attention away from observing a couple on a nearby bench; John held on until they were in line for a coffee. John ordered his black, Sherlock with two sugars, and they took a seat on one of the wooden benches. The breeze ruffled John’s hair as he looked out across the park green with the arrival of spring, the tension in his shoulders gone.

There was a peaceful kind of quiet between them as they sipped their coffee, and it was only after they’d thrown the cups away and were almost back at Baker Street that Sherlock thought to ask John.

“Does this count as a date?”

John paused at the door, thinking, and then smiled at Sherlock (pleased, relaxed, should do this more often) before nodding and saying, “Yes, I think it does.”


	5. Kissing

“Yes, Mrs Adams- just take two of these in the morning and you should be right as rain in a couple of weeks,” John said, smiling politely as the old woman thanked him for his time and exited the office. As soon as the door closed behind her, John slumped over his desk and rubbed a hand over his eyes. It’d been a long day; first there’d been the twin toddlers with the flu, then another little girl with an ear infection, and while Mrs Adams was kind, she’d taken an hour for something that could have been five minutes. Simply put, John was tired. He raised his head to look at the clock on the right wall, relieved to see that it was after four and he could go home. Hopefully Sherlock hadn’t chosen today to do some crazy arse experiment in the flat, because all he really wanted was to relax and have a kip, then a cup of tea after.

* * *

 

The stairs leading up to 221B seemed steeper than usual, and John wearily dragged himself up, using the rail to provide leverage. When he reached the top step in front of the door, he sighed and slowly opened it, bracing himself to find...nothing. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, dingy sunlight shining in the living room, reading a book on poisons, and there was nothing apparently toxic in the kitchen. John walked in, admittedly relieved, and took off his jacket to hang it on the hook. When he turned around, he jumped a bit to see that Sherlock had come up behind him and was now looking at him in that Sherlockian way of his. He was wearing his blue dressing gown over a t shirt and pyjama bottoms, and John was just beginning to wonder if Sherlock wanted something when he was suddenly enveloped in long, somewhat poky, but still comforting, arms.

John returned the hug, hesitantly at first and then kind of melting into Sherlock’s warm length, and closing his eyes, head buried into Sherlock’s chest enough to hear every beat of his heart and every even breath. Sherlock’s cheek rested against John’s head and as the moments passed the tension left his body and was replaced with calm. He felt the soft press of lips on his temple, and John blindly tilted his head up, seeking Sherlock’s lips with his own. When found, their mouths opened lazily and their tongues intertwined with a comforting sort of passion, Sherlock’s hands moving up to gently run through John’s hair. Sherlock tasted like tea and chocolate biscuits, and John savored it and the gentle way their lips moved together, breathing in the musk of the two of them together. Sherlock pulled away to place small, delicate kisses across John’s cheekbones and jaw, before sliding his hands down John’s arms to take one of his hands.

Sherlock led them through the flat to Sherlock’s (their) bedroom, and waited for John to toe off his shoes before laying down on top of the duvet and pulling John down alongside him, rearranging them so that John was curled into the concave parts of Sherlock. John sighed and relaxed into Sherlock’s chest, and started to drift off, only beginning to say something before Sherlock whispered, “Shh, you can tell me later.” John mumbled an agreement of sorts, and the last thing he was aware of before falling asleep was Sherlock delivering velvety kisses to the back of John’s neck in between murmurs of affection and "I love you."


	6. Wearing Each Other's Clothes

The first time it had happened, John had just assumed that his jumper had gotten lost in the wash- it wasn’t with his others, or in any of his drawers. It’s disappearance was one of the mysteries of the laundry, and while he was a bit disappointed (it was a cosy jumper, the oatmeal one he’d worn when he and Sherlock first met) he certainly didn’t lose any sleep over it. He had other jumpers.

The jumper reappeared in his drawers a few days later, perfectly folded, as if it had never left. And it happened again, with the striped jumper, and the red one, until John was actively searching for his jumpers around the flat when they didn’t show up in the drawer.

One morning, early enough that the light coming through the windows was weak, he stumbled into the kitchen to make some tea. Passing the living room he found Sherlock sleeping on the couch on his stomach, head face down in the pillow. _Explains why he didn’t come to bed_ , John thought as he put the kettle on, shaking his head.The latest case had both of them running on empty; it was no wonder Sherlock’s body had shut down. He sat down at the table to wait for the water and returned his eyes to Sherlock, his hair in a wild tangle around his head, one arm dangling off the side of the couch. His shirtsleeves hung out from...wait. Was that…? John got up and walked over, confirming that yes, it was his oatmeal jumper that Sherlock was wearing over his dress shirt, the usual suit jacket thrown over one of the living room chairs. John chuckled softly and pulled a blanket up over Sherlock’s legs and waist and kissed his hair. “Nutter,” he whispered affectionately into the curls, before going back into the kitchen to pour his tea.

And if Sherlock wore John’s almost-too-short-in-the-sleeves jumpers sometimes when he was thinking, well John wasn’t going to complain.

* * *

 

The first time it’d happened, Sherlock had just pulled John out of the Thames, soaking wet and coughing up dirty water. Sherlock frantically cupped John’s face in his hands, staring into John’s dark blue eyes and counting the pulse pounding at his carotid. They stared at each other as John’s breathing evened out, Sherlock muttering statistics about the Thames and John running his hands up and down Sherlock’s arms, telling him that it was okay, that he was _fine_ , until Sherlock began to feel the shudders running their way through the doctor’s body.

He quickly scrambled up, pulling John with him, tugging off the sodden jumper as soon as he was on both his feet. John’s protests were muffled by the fabric as it went over his head, leaving him in a checkered shirt that Sherlock promptly undid, leaving him in a plain t-shirt. Embracing John, Sherlock enveloped the two of them in his coat and hooked his scarf around John’s neck. Standing there in the cold, Sherlock shared his heat with John until the paramedics and Lestrade came.

It happened again another time, when it was downright pouring at a crime scene and John got soaked, continuing to mutter about Sherlock being bloody mad to be “out in this” until Sherlock draped his coat over John’s shoulders before going back to the body. One day, in the frigid weather that was early January in London, Sherlock looked up from an experiment to find John asleep on the sofa, his coat acting as a blanket that only left his head uncovered.

And to be honest, the sight of John in Sherlock’s coat (just a bit too big for him) made Sherlock quite happy.


	7. Cosplaying

Sherlock looked around, disgust plainly written on his face, and looked back at John.

“What is this?” he questioned, gesturing at the convention hall. “They’re all...dressed up! Like children at Halloween, except that they all look the same!”

John rolled his eyes and herded the detective around a girl in a bouncy Dalek dress. The large room was filled with people dressed in striped suits, bowties, and Roman capes, and the noise level was quite loud, forcing John to almost yell when he said,“Sherlock, it’s cosplaying. People dress up as characters they like.”

“Utterly ridiculous.” Of course he didn’t have to raise his voice to be heard.

John glanced around. Sure, it wasn’t his cup of tea, but he could see the appeal. And besides, it didn’t matter what Sherlock thought- their killer apparently had an affinity for Doctor Who and was coming to the convention. John reminded Sherlock of this, who snorted at John and managed to look both menacing and like a five year old sulking in his coat.

“Yes, well,” he sniffed. “At least the similarity of all the costumes forces me to use a bit of actual thought in discovering him.”

Casting his eyes upwards once again, John began moving toward one of the booths. “Right then,” he said as he walked away. “I’m gonna go over here and...you’re not listening, are you?” Sherlock stood there silently looking out across the crowd. John sighed and turned, continuing on to the booth, where a nice lady dressed as Donna started chatting to him about the activities.

* * *

 

Sherlock was sorting. The crowd, that was. The man they were looking for was antisocial, but enough of a fanatic to buy tickets to this...thing, despite his dislike of people. Those same antisocial tendencies would make him jumpy, uncautious around so many people. He was undoubtedly dressed as a villain of some kind, considering his own view of himself and his killing. Sherlock immediately deleted all of the “doctors” and “companions” from his list of suspects (John had explained to him earlier what those costumes would look like) and focused on the robot things and angels, as well as some blonde haired men who didn’t appear to fit in either the villain or hero category. He turned to John to ask him what they were (he knew the show better than Sherlock) to find that John wasn’t there. That was not acceptable- John could _not_ just run off wherever he pleased! Coat swishing he turned and began walking through the hall searching for his blogger.

* * *

`John was currently sitting on the stone steps outside the busy building, enjoying the rare spring sunshine with a cup of coffee. The liquid was warm as the last of it went down his throat and stretching slightly, John stood up to throw it away, groaning a bit when he realized he’d have to go back inside. He decided to double it as a trip to the loo and turned down the narrower, less crowded hallway to the men’s room. He’d just thrown away the cup in the can outside the doors and was walking into the bathroom when something slammed into the his back. Going with his instincts, John rolled with the hit, coming up to see a man in his mid thirties dressed like the Master come at him. _Ah, this must be the guy Sherlock was looking for_ , John thought just before slamming his fist into the guy’s nose. Reeling back he howled with pain, clutching at it as if that was going to make it stop bleeding (or hurting, for that matter). John then kicked him in the stomach, forcing him to bend forwards before shoving him up against the wall, just in time to see Sherlock striding quickly down the hall, coat billowing behind him, a poorly concealed look of worry on his face. John grinned up at him.

“Sherlock,” he greeted. “Text Lestrade?”

Sherlock nodded and looked at the man John was holding down before returning his gaze to John. “You are okay, yes?”

“Yeah, might have some bruises but I’m good.”

Sherlock nodded again. “We are never going to one of these...conventions ever again.”

John laughed and beckoned Sherlock over, pressing a peck to his nose. “No,” he agreed with another kiss, this one to Sherlock’s lips. “No, I think not.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I realize that Sherlock and John didn't actually cosplay in this- I just don't see them doing it. And I have nothing against conventions at all, or the people who attend them (just so we're clear :) ). I've also been meaning to say that the chapters can be interpreted as one story all together or short little stand alones, however you'd like, though some of them may connect loosely. :)


	8. Shopping

“I’m going out to the shop,” John stated, barely glancing at Sherlock, who was lying on the sofa in his “thinking” pose, hands steepled under the chin, eyes closed, legs crossed. The thinking pose was one that John had come to associate with vague responses and generally failed attempts at anything resembling normal human interaction. Which made it all the more surprising when, with a graceful roll off the couch, Sherlock walked over to the door, grabbed his coat, and said:

“Fantastic. I’ll come with you.”

John stared as Sherlock threw on his coat and scarf, only moving into action when Sherlock opened the door and cocked an eyebrow as if to say well? Are we going or not? John shook himself mentally and walked out the door, Sherlock behind him.

It was a blustery day, the chilly wind forcing the leaves on the trees to shake and fly every which way, and John shivered a bit at the sudden blast of cold, pulling his jacket collar up. He looked at Sherlock as they walked down Baker Street to the store around the corner, trying to figure out what had motivated his crazed genius of a partner to go shopping with him.

“I can hear you thinking all the way over here,” Sherlock said with a playful tone. John rolled his eyes and nudged the taller man in the shoulder.

“Quiet you,” he joked, then continued. “Just wondering why you decided to come with me. It’s not something you’ve ever done before.”

As they entered the store, Sherlock waited for John to pick up a basket before answering.

“No, I haven’t,” he said as John picked out carrots. “And I have realized what a grievous oversight this was in my data. I know precisely how you feel about other shoppers, and that you’re relieved when there aren’t a lot. I know that you make lists in your head, and that after a  particularly harrowing experience with the chip and pin machine you watch a full hour of telly and have two cups of tea.” He paused to breathe- they were now in the diary section. John grabbed a carton of milk, but all his attention was on Sherlock, not the shoppers or things he was buying.

“I know all this data about you John, all of these things that come after you’re shopping,” Sherlock continued, “but I know nothing of the experience itself. Certainly, I’ve been shopping before, but always when I was close to starving and often at odd hours. And it’s _you_ , John. I want to see your exasperation with idiots with screaming children and uncooperative machines. I want to observe your habits, how you pick out groceries, how you still take some joy from such a mundane task. Because you matter.” Sherlock finished, rushing the words like a string of deductions. John blinked, and silently they went through the checkout line, Sherlock shifting slightly beside John. They walked out of the store, and down the street, back to 221B. it was still silent between them, and Sherlock’s shifting had gotten more pronounced by the time John closed the door behind them, and turned to Sherlock.

“John,” he started, but John shook his head. Sherlock was quiet.

“You daft git,” John said finally, and stepped forward to put a hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck, bringing him down to meet John’s lips. John started soft, small, chaste kisses that he wanted to say _thank you_ and _you matter too_ before requesting entrance with his tongue, which Sherlock granted with a small sigh. John swirled his tongue around Sherlock’s mouth, nipped his bottom lip, and Sherlock returned the kiss with increased passion, twining his fingers in John’s hair, whimpering slightly at John’s new message, spoken through sucks and licks, _god you are amazing_ and _you are brilliant_ , and _I love you so fucking much_.

Sherlock pulled back with a gasp and John took the opportunity to place a wet kiss to Sherlock’s throat, tonguing the rapid pulse on the pale skin.

“Does this mean,” Sherlock panted, “you don’t mind me coming along?”

John chuckled and licked Sherlock’s collarbone. “I most certainly don’t,” he growled, and lightly pushed Sherlock down on the sofa. “Especially if it ends like this-shopping will be considerably more pleasant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I stopped before the smut. Why? Because I cannot write smut as of yet. Please don't kill me.


	9. Hanging Out With Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I apologize for this chapter. It's not as good (in my opinion) as the others, probably due to the fact that it was written while I was exhausted (also why I'm posting a day late-sorry). So if you'd rather not read this one, I'll hopefully have the next one up at the normal time today.

Sherlock sat quietly in the corner at the table that John, Lestrade, Molly, and Donovan had commandeered at the pub, swirling the amber colored whisky in his glass contemplatively. He hadn’t particularly wanted to come (he could barely stand Donovan when there was an interesting case, how would it work in a social setting at all?) but John did and Sherlock hadn’t had any experiments going in the kitchen so he’d gone, and it actually...was not bad. The pub was busy, and people were loud, but Sherlock amused himself by deducing them, and the whisky was fairly good. Even Donovan wasn’t as irritating as usual.

Sherlock looked up briefly and caught John’s eye, who smiled at him, that smile that said _I’m proud of you_ and _thank you for doing this_ at the same time, before reaching over to grab Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock loved John’s hands (though, to be fair, he loved all of John). They told the stories of his childhood, his service, his acts as a doctor, and his adventures with Sherlock. The close cut nails and still slightly tanned skin was a close to perfect part of a close to perfect man, close to perfect in the way that he was so scarred and human.

Sherlock’s attention was drawn from John’s hand by hooting (Donovan) that sounded through the pub. Looking up, he saw Lestrade and Molly kissing, breaking apart as they realized they had an audience. Lestrade laughed and Molly turned red, though she also looked pleased. Sherlock blinked and smiled slightly; he’d seen it coming for quite some time and he had to admit that the detective and the pathologist had a certain chemistry.

Time (for lack of a better word) flew away, and drink after drink was consumed, until even Sherlock felt a bit tipsy, and John had a slight flush in his cheeks. Molly was probably the most sober, but Lestrade and Donovan were, Sherlock could tell, most definitely in store for a dreadful hangover. Finally they all stumbled out of the pub and a group effort was made to throw Lestrade, Molly, and Donovan in a cab, which, once successful, allowed John and Sherlock to walk the few blocks back to Baker Street.

They were both inebriated enough for everything to seem amusing and the world much kinder than it was. They spent an inordinate amount of time giggling, and John slung his arm over Sherlock’s shoulder, leaning heavily while Sherlock opened the door of the flat. Once they got in, coats were shucked to the floor and shoes abandoned in the living room, a string of clothes going down the hallway (John would be annoyed that they hadn’t left them all in once place in the morning) and they collapsed in bed, both rather happy.


	10. With Animal Ears

Nobody was sure why it happened, only that it did. Some people had cat ears (and sometimes tails, as well), and others didn’t. They estimated that about 3 in 10 people had it, usually developing at a young age. And naturally, Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, would be a part of that 30 percent.

It’d given John pause, for a moment, when they first met at St Bart’s. Sherlock’s ears stuck out from his curly hair, black fur and delicate pink skin- his tail was the same ebony color, thin and swishing as Sherlock deduced John’s life. John had served with a few Crosses (the slang term, that is) in Afghanistan, even shot a few (on the other side, of course) but he’d never really been close to one. But Sherlock had been so captivating that John had decided that moving in with a madman was going to be the same regardless of whether he had cat ears as well as human ears and a tail.

And really, John thought to himself one day, about three months after first moving into Baker Street, it wasn’t as odd as he’d first thought it would be. Sherlock was really just like an ordinary person (or as ordinary as a genius who solved crimes could be), except that he was extremely meticulous about his hair, ears, and tail.

 

* * *

 

They’d been in a relationship for a week when John discovered it. It was a cold winter’s day, and Sherlock was calm, having just finished up a case involving Russian knife throwers and a computer chip that was extremely valuable. A thrilling chase and a feast of Chinese takeaway after had led to Sherlock being quite sated and ready for sleep, leading to their current position. They were in Sherlock’s bed (upon his insistence that it was “far more soft and comfortable and therefore more conducive to cuddling”), John flat on his back and Sherlock sprawled across John’s chest, one arm thrown over his head across John’s collarbones and the other lightly gripping John’s ribs. Their legs were wound together beneath the light sheet. Sherlock was definitely asleep (evidenced by his soft almost-snores), but John was just drifting, only half awake, but still somewhat aware of the world and filled with a lazy contentment.

John’s hand drifted over Sherlock’s hair, carding the curls gently in a half hearted manner. His hair was extraordinarily soft-probably from that posh conditioner he used-and John loved the silky feel of it against his fingers, when suddenly John brushed something that wasn't hair. _Oh_ , John thought fuzzily, _it’s his ear_. He lightly scratched the base of it as one would do to a real cat, and was pleasantly surprised at the answering purr. John continued to pet Sherlock’s ears, bring his other hand up to rub down Sherlock’s spine, and Sherlock continued to purr softly, sleepily butting his head against John’s chest every so often.

It turned out that Sherlocks with cat ears and tails quite enjoyed post-case petting (and every during cases, if Sherlock was extremely tense), and that John Watsons rather enjoyed petting a particular consulting detective.

They worked rather well together.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my first thought when seeing this prompt was to do one with Sherlock doing an experiment with animal ears, but then I started thinking about it was was like, "it would be really different to do some catlock". So I did (all the while thinking "am I really doing...yes, apparently so") and I actually really enjoyed it, enough that I may expand upon this one at some later date (I've got a list of fic ideas). Loosely inspired by [this ](http://37.media.tumblr.com/f72419bcffddc26a078af38831e86298/tumblr_mm06gcJWD31rgkaoho2_400.jpg) and [this](http://24.media.tumblr.com/4ceffab335472f7ec689c196ddadf7bc/tumblr_mm06gcJWD31rgkaoho1_400.jpg)


	11. Wearing Kigurumis

John had walked in on a number of extremely odd things happening in 221B. Anything, really, was possible when one lived with Sherlock Holmes-the first few things that came to mind were the times that Sherlock had been doing a headstand, had strung tripwires across their living room, and covered the kitchen floor in butter.

He’d been at a conference in Dublin for three days, and while the trip hadn’t been too stressful, John was glad to be counting the familiar steps up to the flat again. The door swung open with its usual soft squeak, and John stepped inside, dropping his bag on the floor as he contemplated what kind of tea he’d like (the hotel’s tea had been decent, but it was never the same as a cuppa at home). As he turned into the kitchen, he spared a glance at the couch, and that, as had happened many times before, was what changed John Watson’s plans.

Sherlock was lying on the couch in his customary position, hands under the chin and legs crossed, but he was wearing a piece of clothing John didn’t even know existed for adults-it looked like a pair of onesie pyjamas but had, for some reason, a hood and the design of a fox on it.

“Uh...Sherlock?” John questioned. There was a hum in return, probably supposed to mean something along the lines of:

“What John I’m _thinking._ ”

“Sherlock, what are you wearing?”

John could hear the sigh all the way from where he was standing as Sherlock opened his eyes. “They’re called kigurumis, John. Japanese clothing.‘Kuru’ meaning ‘to wear’ and nuigurumi meaning ‘stuffed toy’. So yes, essentially exactly what you thought it was.”

John shifted, taking in the information and nodding slightly. “Right, but _why_ are you wearing it?”

Sherlock groaned and put a hand over his face. “For a case, John, why else?!”

John looked at Sherlock for a moment, then decided that before he learned anything about this case that apparently required Japanese onesies. He turned into the kitchen and got the kettle going, sitting at the table (at least there were no experiments) until it clicked off. As John poured the water Sherlock spoke from the living room.

“Pour me a cup too, while you’re at it.” John seamlessly continued pouring the water while he grabbed another cup for Sherlock.

He entered the living room and walked over to Sherlock, who was now sitting, legs pulled up to his chest on one end of the couch. Sherlock accepted the offered cup with a nod, and John settled down next to Sherlock. There was a peaceful silence where they just enjoyed the presence of one another after an absence before the case dashed into their lives once again and Sherlock whispered, very quietly, as he took hold of John’s hand:

“Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you want to know what a kigurumi is: [here you go](http://kigurumi-shop.com/what-is-kigurumi.aspx)


	12. Making Out

Sherlock really, really enjoyed kissing John Watson. He loved kissing John’s lips, which were always slightly chapped but still very soft, and breathing his breath, which often tasted like tea. Sherlock was enthralled with the varying degrees of stubble that covered John’s cheeks and chin, with the wrinkles that smoothed out when Sherlock placed his lips on John’s forehead. John’s neck, and the dips of his collarbones, begged Sherlock to lick and suck (and he did, often). His skin tasted like salt, and soap, and Sherlock had spent hours one day (many days) tasting all of John’s body, committing to memory the texture and concentration of scent and taste, every centimeter of it.

John was still sleeping when Sherlock woke up, stretching a bit in his position draped over John’s chest, who was breathing evenly underneath him. (Sherlock had found that sleeping and lie ins were considerably not boring when it was with John.) Propping himself up on his elbows, Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s pulse, first just feeling it beat before opening his mouth and licking a stripe down John’s throat, the skin still warm with sleep as John began to shift, waking. Sherlock continued to lick John, to catalogue how his breathing turned rougher, and had made his way up to John’s chin, nibbling at the skin, when John’s eyes opened to meet Sherlock’s.

“Good morning,” John whispered hoarsely, and Sherlock dipped his head to caress John’s lips with his own, soft and warm and wet. Sherlock hummed softly at the familiar way John’s mouth moved against his, their tongues flicking, teasing, before plunging deep into the other’s mouth., curling together in the lazy kind of passion that came with early morning light on a Sunday morning. John’s hands slid up and down Sherlock’s spine and one of his feet hooked around Sherlock’s calf as his breathing sped up, the warm air ghosting through Sherlock’s mouth, into Sherlock’s lungs, and blood, and cells. (Sherlock would never get over that small miracle, the microscopic parts of John finding their way into his body.)  Sherlock gripped John’s shoulders, his right hand fingers lightly tracing John’s scar, as he broke away to plant pecks just below John’s ear. He pressed his nose into the spot between John’s ear and neck, breathing in his scent as their hearts slowed and settled into a continuous rhythm together.

Sherlock brought his head back up to look at John, a slight smile on his face, and placed one last kiss to John’s lips, full of joy and love.

“Good morning,” he whispered against them.


	13. Eating Ice Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the day late update on this...I was reading a really good fic last night and just couldn't put it down. Should be another coming up later tonight :)

“It hurts!” Sherlock hissed, flinching away from the damp cloth John had placed on Sherlock’s jaw, trying to clean the scrape.

“Well yes it hurts,” John said as he grasped the other side of Sherlock’s jaw, forcing him to stay still. “You hit the ground while running and scraped your jaw- you’ll probably have a bruise in a few hours, too.”

Sherlock grumbled and winced, but didn’t try to pull away again. After John finished disinfecting the scrape, he ruffled Sherlock’s hair and left the bathroom, going into the kitchen.

“D’you want anything?” he called to Sherlock, who was walked into the living room and flung himself onto the sofa, undoubtedly ready to fly into a sulk despite having solved the case.

“No,” he muttered. “Besides, it hurts to move my jaw.”

“Then why are you talking? Never mind. I think I’ve got something that’ll help,” John shot back affectionately, and moved to the freezer, opening it (and hoping what he was looking for hadn’t been commandeered for some experiment). He smiled when it turned out that the two pints of chocolate chip ice cream he’d bought on a whim a couple weeks ago were still there and unopened, even if they’d taken up residence behind an unidentifiable mass of meat. He pulled them out, got some spoons, and carried them into the living room, setting them down on the coffee table. John nudged Sherlock’s feet.

“Budge over,” he said. Sherlock reluctantly slid his feet up until his knees were bent and there was enough room for John to sit. He reached over and grabbed one of the pints and spoons and held it out to Sherlock, who pulled himself up into a sitting position and looked at the ice cream, then back at John.

“How on earth is a sweet dairy product going to help?” Sherlock questioned, clearly attempting not to move his jaw much.

John rolled his eyes. “Well, if you want a purely medical answer, it will probably numb your jaw. Other than that? Ice cream tastes good, and helps you feel good too.”

Sherlock huffed and snatched the container from John’s hands, prying open the lid and sticking the spoon in. “I doubt it,” he snarked.

John shook his head and reached for his own ice cream, opened it, and ate some, closing his eyes in appreciation, a soft moan coming at the perfect flavor. God it had been _ages_ since he’d indulged in ice cream. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock staring at him, spoon halfway to his mouth. His eyes were wide open, pupils dilated.

John grinned and nodded towards the spoon. “Better eat that before it melts,” he said. Sherlock seemed to stir out of whatever trance he’d been in and stuck the spoon in his mouth, his expression conveying the way that he was probably cataloging how the ice cream tasted and what made John make that noise.

John laughed and placed a soft peck on the tip of Sherlock’s nose, causing his eyes to fly open.

“Eat your ice cream, you berk,” John said warmly, “and you can catalog later.”


	14. Genderswapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please note, no actual genderswapping in this chapter. I tried writing them female and it just...wasn't working for me.

“Are you sure about this, Sherlock?” John asked, staring at Sherlock who was currently shading his lips a deep red. “I mean, going to clubs for a case is one thing but this…”

Sherlock made eye contact with John in the mirror, a look that clearly said _Really John? Stop being an idiot._ With a smack of his lips Sherlock turned around and struck a pose (ridiculous looking on him if you know Sherlock but probably not far from what he’d be doing in an hour or so). Sherlock was...surprisingly good at being a woman. Though really, John thought, it oughtn’t be so surprising, what with those cheekbones-add breasts and shave, and Sherlock Holmes made a very good looking drag queen. He was wearing a tight, corseted dress and stiletto heels, face covered in heavy makeup and hair (extensions) made all wavy so that it framed his face as if he’d just gotten out of bed. It was for a case, of course (what wasn’t?)- they were on the trail of a massive drug dealer who frequented a certain underground club that happened to feature drag queens-hence, Sherlock standing in their loo looking like a model.

They took a cab to the club, stopping a few blocks down. Sherlock walked in heels like he did everything else-that is, with absolute confidence and no hesitation. Just as they were nearing the club, John lightly grabbed onto Sherlock’s shoulder, forcing him to turn around. When he did, John focused on his eyes-because those, regardless of how bizarre it was seeing Sherlock like a woman, those bloody eyes that changed color and held John captive hadn’t changed.

“Are you sure?” he asked again, quietly. And Sherlock, in one of those moments where he seemed to be able to see John’s soul and mind, didn’t scoff or brush him off.

He took John’s hand,  intertwined their fingers, and said, “I’m sure.”

John nodded. “Then let’s go.”


	15. In A Different Clothing Style

There were certainly many things, Sherlock mused, that he was fascinated by. He hadn’t, however, found anything quite as interesting as John Watson. And the thing about John that Sherlock obsessed over most often was the man’s complete uniqueness. He was a walking contradiction- a soldier and a doctor, a lover of crap telly and danger. Really, was it any surprise that-

Sherlock was drawn up out of his thoughts by a bang and quiet curse from the kitchen. “Sorry Sherlock,” John called out. “Know you’re thinking, just….dropped the damn kettle,” he trailed off.

Sherlock waved his hand in the air as he got up, brushing off John’s apology. “Quite alright,” he said, walking into the kitchen to sit at the table. John had picked up the kettle and filled it, and was now leaning up against the counter waiting for it to whistle. He smiled a bit at Sherlock before yawning, his eyes closing as he stretched. A few joints cracked and John winced, but it passed quickly.

John in the mornings was a riveting sight, for Sherlock. John, when he got up on his own time, was soft and sleep worn, hair sticking up on end and his plain white tank top and plaid pyjama trousers rumpled. He was barefoot in the morning, and without socks or jumpers John seemed a little more...something. The kettle whistled (finally) and John grabbed two mugs and tea bags (Earl Grey) before pouring the water in. He turned and gave one to Sherlock, pausing to press a kiss to Sherlock’s curls, and sat down at the table with him. They sat in silence for a while, and then Sherlock broke the quiet.

“You,” he said. John blinked, brow furrowed.

“Sorry?”

“You were wondering what I’d been thinking about,” Sherlock stated. “It was you.”

John looked at him for a moment, as if baffled, then shook his head almost ruefully, with a hint of delight. “You know, that will never cease to amaze me. _You_ will never cease to amaze me, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock stood up to go into the living room, and paused to return John’s earlier affection, briefly wrapping his arms around John and burying his nose in the nape of John’s neck, breathing him in, before gently releasing him and continuing on to the couch, where he laid down on his back.

“Come over here,” he said to John.

“Why?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled. “I fancy a kip. Come here.”

Sherlock could hear John’s huff of amusement and then felt John’s warm, more compact (but strong, definitely) body carefully arrange itself on top of Sherlock. Sherlock planted his fingers into John’s hair, making John but into Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock smiled, and so did John, and Sherlock continued to think about the closest thing to a miracle he’d ever met, while John-well. John slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this was probably a bit of a stretch for the prompt but I really just felt a need for some couch cuddling in pyjamas. So there we go.


	16. During Their Morning Rituals

Mornings, for John, were a luxury. In the army, one experienced mornings by being woken up by gunfire or people shouting orders. While the excitement was all well and good, John had been glad to be able to sleep in again.

Not at first, of course. When he’d first gotten back he was lonely, and lost. No way to live in London, no way he could leave. Mornings those days had been looked upon with dread-the start to another grey, bleak day in a sea of grey, bleak days marked only by how severe his limp was. And then John had met Sherlock Holmes, who whirled into his life with the swish of a coat, and John found himself appreciating mornings more than he ever used to, regardless of whether they started with a crime, an experiment, or just waking up.

He had a sort of schedule, for each kind of morning, though Sherlock, in his dramatic way, would probably liken it to a battle plan. Crime mornings usually started early, and abruptly, with Lestrade bangiing on the door or Sherlock poking John and throwing a jacket at him, both of them exclaiming about whatever happened that time. John would drag himself out of bed with a groan, putting on the kettle while he threw on his most comfortable jumper. He generally ignored Sherlock’s protestations that John was moving too slowly and drank his tea before they left to the crime scene. Breakfast was wistfully sacrificed in hopes that it would return at a later time.

Experiment mornings were...unique, to say the least. Depending on the experiment (or rather, depending on how much Sherlock had destroyed the kitchen) John would make breakfast or eat down at Mrs Hudson’s, and generally try to stay out of Sherlock’s domain. He’d come back later, and Sherlock would explain the experiment (if it went well or the bad results were just as interesting), or John would cuddle with Sherlock until he stopped sulking about an experiment gone wrong. John didn’t mind these days, really-he knew that Sherlock got bored, and that the experiments were a way of entertaining himself. Though that one time with the decomposing pig...a bit not good.

But John’s favourite kind of mornings, he decided, were the ones where nothing happened- at least not right away. On those mornings he would wake up slowly and lazily, usually with Sherlock curled around him like an octopus, his warm breath blowing softly against John’s skin, whether it be the back of his neck or his chest. John would keep his eyes closed even after he was awake, just enjoying the feeling of skin on skin and drowsiness until Sherlock began to stir- then they would either stay in bed or get up and do something, though either way John always left for a few minutes to make tea.

Really though, any morning John had was wonderful, because a new morning was no longer shuddersome, but meant the beginning of another day in which John and Sherlock were still John and Sherlock. And that, John thought, was a very good thing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two fills about mornings in a row! I got kind of excited about that :)


	17. Spooning

Sherlock was confused. It was not a pleasant feeling, not the kind of confused that came just before an epiphany during a case. It was not leading to a burst of clarity.

John had not come out from the bedroom. And for once, Sherlock’s odd internal clock had not been making him think that it was time for John to come into the kitchen, hair mussed and yawning (not that he’d admit, but he’d gotten up to check every clock in the flat, just to be sure). As he sat in his chair idly plucking at the strings of his violin, Sherlock tried to find a cause for the anomaly, but failed. He sat there, thinking until the sunlight had turned golden with the arrival of early afternoon, going through every piece of data he had on John until- _oh_ of course-idiot. The date-it was the day that Sherlock had….

The realization of why John was still in bed did not, as Sherlock had hoped, made things easier. It left him with another problem-should he go and try to help John, or stay in the living room until John came out.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he admonished himself. Why shouldn’t he go comfort John? Mind made up he swung out of his chair and set the violin down on the desk by the window, then walked down the hallway. The door was shut, causing a small flutter of worry in Sherlock’s stomach (he’d never had this problem before, but then again, he’d never had _John_ before). He reached out and slowly turned the knob, revealing the room beyond. It was dark, blinds closed, and John was curled up in bed with his back to the door, the blankets pulled up so that only the top of John’s head was showing.

“John?” Sherlock said softly, walking over to the bed, stopping when he got to the edge. John stirred, but only to curl up further in on himself, and didn’t say anything. Sherlock shuffled for a moment, then peeled off his suit jacket and crawled under the covers and over to John until his chest was pressed against John’s back, with one arm thrown over John’s waist and the other between them. Sherlock’s hand spread open over John’s chest, John’s heartbeat pulsing gently under his fingers. His lips caressed the soft, John-smelling nape of John’s neck, mouthing all the things he wanted to say:

_I’m sorry John, I’m so sorry that I left you and never told you why until after it was done. I had to, but I didn’t like it. It was painful for both of us, but that doesn’t mean that you deserve this, that I deserve you. Because you are the most fascinating person I have ever met, John, even more than Moriarty, and I am very glad to have you as my heart. I love you. I love you and I want to take you apart, to study your DNA and taste your blood and find out what makes you John Watson. You are like a mystery wrapped in an enigma, and I love you for it. I’ll never leave you again._

“I love you too Sherlock,” John whispered, voice husky from the tears he’d undoubtedly shed earlier. John’s hand came up to cover Sherlock’s, and then he pulled it off John’s chest to entwine their fingers. John brought their hands up to his lips, where he held them. _I love you too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry again for being a day late on this! Yesterday I had a dance performance and was so tired that I kind of just fell asleep once I got home. I'll be back on track today though, as a new prompt shall be filled later today :)


	18. Doing Something Together

“Six down is penultimate,” Sherlock commented blithely, looking up at John. The detective was lying on the couch, head in John’s lap as he read a large book on the chemical lab analysis of evidence.  
“Shut up, you berk,” John said with affection, reaching down to quickly ruffle Sherlock’s hair. “I want to do it myself.”  
Sherlock snorted. “If you wanted to do it yourself you’d wait until I left the flat. Instead, you do it in close proximity to me, and constantly make sure that the words are in my view. You pencil in the ones I solve. I don’t see how any of that points to you wanting to ‘do it yourself’,” he pointed out, then went back to his book. John huffed a laugh and, being sure to keep the clues out of Sherlock’s sight, continued his crossword.  
Days like these weren’t common in their coming, John knew, so when he’d woken up to a Sherlock who insisted they have a “lazy day” after the conclusion of another case, John readily agreed. They’d laid in bed for a few hours, Sherlock curled around John’s body like a starfish, before they got up and had tea and toast. Breakfast had led to the newspaper, which had led to their current position. The living room of the flat was as cluttered as ever, the afternoon sunlight making the dust look like sparkling pieces of light.  
John, for his part, was utterly content, and Sherlock, who had put down his book and turned over so that he was on his stomach, face-down on John’s pyjama-clad lap, seemed to be enjoying the reprieve as well. Sherlock’s left arm was thrown over his head and John’s legs, and his right was pressing against John’s left thigh. The dressing gown he hadn’t bothered to change out of was tangled around his legs. John, finished with his crossword (after Sherlock figured out half of it), devoted his attention to Sherlock’s scalp, massaging it gently and carding his fingers through the curls. They were soft, and barely tangled, despite their permanently windswept appearance, and John loved running his hands through it.  
A soft sound of pleasure came from Sherlock as John continued to brush through Sherlock’s hair, a noise that almost sounded like purring. John chuckled, and rested his head back on the couch with a yawn. He could feel himself starting to drift off, and even Sherlock’s breathing was beginning to deepen. They fell asleep there, on the couch, and John could say with certainty that it was the most successful lazy day he’d ever had.


	19. In Formal Wear

If one had to say something about Mycroft’s dinner parties, it’s that they were certainly extravagant. No expense was spared to ensure that the guests were properly awed-chandeliers cast an ambient glow, fine wines and champagnes were in seemingly endless supply, and the food was always served in small amounts and consisted of delicacies from around the world. Sherlock hated it.

“John,” he whined quietly. “This is dreadful and dull-why on earth did we agree to this?”

John, standing beside him, rolled his eyes. “Because you’re helping Mycroft with a case.”

Sherlock scoffed into his glass of champagne. “I regret doing so. Immensely. The only useful part of this evening so far has been seeing you in a suit, and I can’t even tear it off and fuck you because Mycroft probably has the entire place bugged within an inch of its life.”

John choked a little on his wine, and coughed a few times, face turning slightly red. “Well,” he said shakily. “Alright then.”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “It’s true, though. You cut a very dashing figure in a suit John, despite your obvious discomfort in it. it emphasizes your shoulders and that particular shade of blue brings out your eyes. Much more appealing than jumpers.”

John rolled his eyes. “There is _nothing_ wrong with my jumpers, Sherlock. Now, have you caught sight of that ambassador that we were supposed to be checking out?”

“Yes of course,” Sherlock said dismissively. “Saw him a few moments ago, he’s not our guy.”

John looked at him and shook his head with exasperation. “Then why on earth aren’t we leaving now?”

“Because Mycroft is coming our way and it will be easier to get rid of him here instead of later at the flat,” Sherlock grimaced. “And also because,” he continued, placing his mouth close enough to John’s ear for his voice to turn into that low whisper that made John go weak in the knees, “I wanted to look at your suit some more.”

Sherlock watched a shiver run down John’s spine before turning at a quiet cough. Mycroft was standing there, pompous as usual, looking a bit too smug for the occasion.

“Sherlock, John,” he greeted smoothly. “Have you discovered anything?”

“The ambassador isn’t who you’re looking for. John and I will do some more poking around, but not now-tomorrow. We have...business to attend to,” Sherlock said, finishing abruptly and tugging at John’s sleeve to get him to walk with him. “Good-by Mycroft.”

“Always a pleasure, brother dear.” Sherlock did not bother replying, just continued walking to the door, John just a step behind. When they got outside Sherlock sighed in relief, breath clouding in front of him. After he hailed a cab and they piled in, John chuckled quietly.

“What?” Sherlock inquired. “What is so funny?”

“You wanted to look at me in the suit Sherlock, but stayed at the party to do it. Did it ever occur to you that I wouldn’t mind letting you look at me at home?”

Sherlock blinked, a wolfish grin covering his face. “ _Oh_.”

Fortunately, they weren’t far from Baker Street.


	20. Dancing

“You need to relax,” Sherlock breathed in John’s ear. John flinched slightly and turned to look at Sherlock.

“What do you mean?” he said loudly, trying to be heard over the music. The club was dimly lit, lights flashing all around.

Sherlock dipped his head again and spoke into John’s ear. “You’re too tense, and it’s causing you to stick out. At this rate we’ll be spotted in an instant.”

“Well what exactly do you want me to do?” John hissed right back at him. “This isn’t really my _scene_ , you know.” John felt incredibly uncomfortable in his tight black t-shirt and blue jeans. Sherlock, of course, looked completely at ease in a pair of leather trousers, a black dress shirt, and boots-when was the man ever uncomfortable?

In reply, Sherlock pulled him up from the table and John’s whisky and started walking them towards the dance floor.

“What are we doing?” John yelled. “You know I can’t-” He was cut off when Sherlock stopped in the middle of the floor and, in a move that should’ve been illegal, dropped into a crouch before slowly dragging his body up John’s.

“Any other protests?” Sherlock questioned when he was standing upright once again,  hips still moving in a completely obscene fashion and it just wasn’t fair for a man to look as attractive as he did in leather. John shook his head mutely, and Sherlock turned him around so that John’s back was to Sherlock’s front. John almost choked with the change of sensation, then leaned back, head resting on Sherlock’s collarbone.

“You are a prat,” he murmured, but there wasn’t any heat behind it. How could there be, when Sherlock’s quickly hardening length was pressing into John’s arse? He felt Sherlock’s answering hum vibrate through his chest and Sherlock’s hands came down to John’s hips, keeping him in place as they turned slightly. The music was still loud (Sherlock must have super-hearing, John thought briefly), and Sherlock bent his head to ask John:

“Do you see our man anywhere?” John opened his eyes slowly and looked around, but shook his head.

“No.”

“Pity,” Sherlock said, then licked a stripe down John’s neck, causing him to gasp. “And to think we came all the way out here for nothing.”

John groaned as Sherlock’s breath ghosted over the strip of damp skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps. “You knew he wouldn’t be here didn’t you?” he panted quietly. “You bloody knew and still dragged me out here-” John stopped suddenly because Sherlock had started mouthing the back of John’s neck and his hips had starting doing small, grinding circles and John was getting hard. “Jesus Sherlock there are _people_ ,” he tried to say, but it came out garbled.

Sherlock turned John back around and captured his mouth, tongue pushing against John’s, teeth nipping at lips. John pushed back, hooking his arms around Sherlock’s neck and pulling him down so that he didn’t have to tiptoe (bloody boots) and angled his head just so-both of them moaned at the added depth and the pressing of their hips together because yes, both of them were definitely hard now.

John pulled away, gasping. “Shit,” he cursed, and bit back another moan as Sherlock twitched his hips and his hands came down to John’s arse, pulling him closer. “Sherlock, stop, or we’re going to have a few more issues than we do. I am _not_  being arrested for having sex on a dance floor.” He tried putting some resolve in his voice, but could tell that it didn’t intimidate Sherlock, who bent back down and connected their mouths once again, sucking on John’s tongue and doing devilish things with his own that weren’t fair, were making John imagine hot bodies grinding more, pounding into Sherlock as the bass dropped around them.

Sherlock ended the kiss and kept eye contact with John (god his pupils were wide) as he made one long roll with his hips, causing John’s breath to catch, before grinning briefly.

“Good thing there’s an alley out back then,” he said, and it had to have been at a normal volume but somehow John still managed to hear him and that was it, the last of his reserves crumbled with that voice saying those words.

“Let’s go,” he growed, tugging Sherlock backwards off the dance floor. “I’m going to shag you senseless, Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea where this came from, but here it is.


	21. Cooking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry guys. This fill...well, to be honest, I think it's crap. But I wanted to get something up and this is all I've got.

“That,” John gasped as they traipsed up the stairs, “was brilliant. As usual, but still-the fingernails? Fantastic.”  
Sherlock turned and grinned as he unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Yes, well, it was obvious, in the end.”   
Joh just grinned and shook his head, tossing down his jacket and moving into the kitchen. “Tea?” he called out to Sherlock, who was hanging up his coat and toeing off his shoes.  
“Yes,” came the response. “And food.”  
“What kind?”  
Sherlock shrugged and flopped onto the couch. “I don’t know. Something good.”  
John huffed in exasperation. “Fine. You’re getting pasta,” he stated firmly, and set about filling a pot with water for the noodles.  
Half an hour later, John walked into the living room with two plates of pasta and two more cups of tea. Sherlock pushed himself up the couch and accepted the plate, diving in greedily while John sat down next to him and started eating (because unlike some people, John had actually eaten in the past four days). For a while, only the clinking of forks and plates filled the flat, and the occasional sound of satisfaction. Finally with a sigh, Sherlock put his plate down on the table-a few minutes later, John did too, then motioned to the detective who was starting to get bleary eyed and yawned every few moments. Swinging his legs so that the were stretched out on the couch, John slid down and patted his chest. “C’mon,” he said to Sherlock. “You need some sleep.”  
Sherlock snorted indignantly, but laid his head on John’s chest anyway, arms coming down to hug either side of John’s rib cage. John felt him rub his head against John’s sternum, and John’s fingers automatically came up to rest in his hair. “G’night, Sherlock,” John mumbled, eyes already closing (because he may have eaten,but he hadn’t gotten as much sleep as he’d like). The only answer was the deepening of Sherlock’s breaths.


	22. In Battle, Side By Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so a bit of explanation for this chapter...I was imagining and AU of sorts where Sherlock came back really soon after TRF, and both John and him went after Moran and the rest of Moriarty's network.

“His name is Houten,” Sherlock stated as John came through the hotel room door. It was a dingy, small room, with white walls, beige carpet, and a tiny bathroom; Sherlock stood to the side of the bed by the window, staring at the web of pictures, maps, and string that covered the wall.

John set down the simple groceries he’d bought on a small table. “Who is he?” he asked, walking over to Sherlock, who pointed at a picture of a large, burly man with dark hair and a beard.

“Leader of a drug cartel, but it’s only the small part of a larger set of gears,” Sherlock replied. “However,” he continued, reaching out to faintly trace a piece of string, “he may very well have some information on Moran or his whereabouts.”

“Where’s he at?” John asked.

“Berlin.” Sherlock stopped and looked at John. “You don’t have to-I mean, I can do this. Alone. If you-”

John shook his head. “Don’t be daft. I’m coming.”

* * *

 

 

 

At the sound of voices coming down the corridor, John pulled Sherlock back around the corner and pushed him up against the wall. John drew his gun while pressing his finger to his lips, telling Sherlock in no uncertain terms to _shut up now or we will die._ Sherlock, in return, gives him a look that says _yes John, I know_. The voices get closer, and John readies the gun, heart pounding but hands completely steady; as they reach the corner John glances at Sherlock and nods once before stepping out into the dimly lit hall.

The voices stop. “Hello boys,” John says calmly. “I think you have something of mine.”

A deep reply comes, presumably from the leader of the group-Houten, then. “Oh? What might that be?”

He is a big man-muscles and hair and generally not the type of person you’d be comfortable around at night in an alley. John does not care.

“Information.”

The man snorts and looks at his henchman. John can tell what he’s thinking-that John is only one man, and how can he stop them? “And how are you going to make me give it to you?” he taunts. “Because I won’t. Me or my men.”

“It’s just information,” Sherlock interrupts, coming out from around the corner. His hands are behind his back and he is looking at the men like a teacher would naughty school children. John spares a second to look at him, but shifts his focus back to the group.

Houten shifts, looking weary of this new sharp dressed man. “About what?” he asks uncertainly.

“Sebastian Moran,” John says, keeping Sherlock in his vision as the detective circles the four men, “we know you’ve worked with him.”

The leader bares his teeth. “Why do you want to know about him?” he snarls, and quick as a flash Sherlock slams an elbow into the Houten’s stomach before shoving upward to break his nose, causing him to groan and clutch his face.

Sherlock pulled his head up by the hair. “Because he threatened something of mine, and I am going to make him and Moriarty’s network pay. Now where is he?” Sherlock hissed, and threw the man up against the wall. One of the three others moved towards them, but John gestured with the gun and they moved back.

Houten coughed and spat a mouthful of blood on the floor before glaring at Sherlock. (John couldn’t find it in himself to feel sorry for the man.) “Heard he’s in Russia now,” the man stated reluctantly, and Sherlock nodded before releasing him.

Sherlock’s eyes met John’s and they shared a moment of silent conversation. Is that enough to go on? John questioned, and Sherlock said yes, for now. With a nod, John quickly swung the butt of the gun to the back of the men’s heads, swiftly knocking them unconscious, then turned to Sherlock, who had slammed Houten’s nose hard against the wall leaving him moaning on the floor. John and Sherlock looked at each other, and John felt his conviction hardening even more, a purpose that settled just below his heart.

John walked over to Sherlock and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “Russia, he said?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Then let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reading this over, I actually wouldn't be opposed to expanding this into it's own fic.


	23. Arguing

“Here, let me help you,” John said, trying to grab Sherlock’s arm and help him up the stairs to 221B. They were coming home from the hospital after Sherlock broke his leg (jumping out of a window, the idiot), and the detective was having some trouble managing his crutches, cast, and the steps. Before John could make contact though, Sherlock pulled away and stubbornly hauled himself up the stairs, not even sparing John a glance. It stung, but John tried to shrug it off.

When they finally got into the flat, Sherlock set himself down on the sofa, and John went into the kitchen to put the kettle on before navigating the massive piles of paper in the living room to prop a pillow up for Sherlock’s leg. He was just lifting Sherlock’s foot when, with a snarl, the man sat up and limped over to the window, arms crossed.

John mirrored his posture. “Why won’t you let me help?” he demanded, more than a little hurt now. Sherlock had refused John’s assistance leaving the hospital, in the cab, and while John could attribute those to not wanting the public to see, in the privacy of their home? Why was Sherlock being so stubborn? He was a doctor, dammit!

Sherlock turned and John was surprised by the sneer on his face. “Because I don’t _need_ your help John, nor do I want it. I am perfectly capable of helping myself- I don’t need you hovering around like a mother hen when in reality you are a pathetic injured ex army doctor who spends his days diagnosing colds and flus and if he’s lucky the occasional infection. I do not desire to be mollycoddled but you clearly cannot separate your emotions from your care, which I never asked for in the first place. _This_ is why I dislike sentiment so much! This wasn’t an issue _before_ , why should it be now? I’d be better off if you left, at least then I’d be able to _think_!” Sherlock flung an arm out in frustration and turned back to the window, effectively closing the conversation and indicating that anything John said wouldn’t matter.

John stood there clenching his hands. Half of him was furious, wanted to march over, twist Sherlock around, and yell right back at him, but the other half (quickly becoming more than half as Sherlock continued to ignore him) was simply hurt, making it hard for him to breathe. He knew, certainly, that Sherlock was no saint, and that he had his days, but calling him pathetic, completely dismissing the feelings he had for Sherlock cut further than John had expected. Perhaps he should just go, at least for a few days- Sherlock had unquestionably made his thoughts on the subject clear.

Mind made up, John nodded to himself-a quick jerk of the head to pull himself together, and walked to the door. He paused for a moment with his door on the handle, hoping that Sherlock would say something (anything), but the tall man said nothing, didn’t even look at John and John continued on his way, keeping his footsteps down the stairs as light as possible and closed the front door behind him.

 


	24. Making Up Afterwards

John stood on the front stoop for a few minutes, trying to decide where, exactly, he could go to give Sherlock some room. Harry wasn’t an option, not after she’s started the drinking again, and while Lestrade was a friend John felt a bit uncomfortable asking for this sort of favor. With a sigh, John decided he’d just have to get a motel room, and started walking down Baker Street, trying to let the sounds and sights and scents of London burrow their way into his chest and shrink the size of the hurt. By the time he’d gotten to the tube station and chose a train at random, he was starting to feel somewhat normal again.

John didn’t blame Sherlock for what he’d done-not really, anyway. He understood that Sherlock lashed out when he was bored, and John tried to take it in stride. There were only so many things that someone could listen to before needing a break, though.

_It’s okay_ , he told himself as he walked through Kingston Gardens. _Only for a couple days, let Sherlock have his space._ He sat down on a park bench and looked around-it was a nice day, for London in October; not too cold, and there was only a mild breeze. John began to lose track of time, but didn’t really mind because it was still probably only mid afternoon. He was contemplating what to have for dinner when a familiar coat-clad figure sat on the bench next to him, crutches propped up beside him.

“Sherlock,” he greeted, trying not to let anything bleed into his tone. _No conclusions without data,_ Sherlock had told John before, and if the man had deduced and tracked his way to John then John was going to try and let him do the talking.

“John,” Sherlock replied, and bent his head. “I am...sorry,” he said slowly, fingers twisting. “For what I said. Back at the flat.” Sherlock looked at John and reached out a hand before pulling it back and setting it down on the bench, where it curled in on itself. “I was not being kind, and you are not pathetic. Not even remotely close.”

John uncurled Sherlock’s fingers and slipped his fingers through Sherlock’s, the habit coming easily. “I understand,” he said softly.

Sherlock looked up. “You do? I mean- I thought, for certain, that you were leaving for good, and I don’t want that to happen-”

“Shh.” John placed a finger over Sherlock’s lips. “I understand,” he continued, “that you get bored, and dislike being, as you put it, mollycoddled. I understand that you get snappy. But you have to think about some of those things first, Sherlock. Because it did hurt, and I would prefer to not have to have this particular argument again.”

Sherlock nodded. “I will try...in the future. To be….better. Or at least be less harsh with my words. But only with you, John. Not Anderson or Donovan or Lestrade or even Mycroft.”

John smiled and pulled Sherlock into a hug, pressing his nose into the curls at the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Love you, berk. Now, let’s go home- you really need to rest that leg.”


	25. Gazing Into Each Other's Eyes

A soft rattling from his chest and the slight movement of the sheets were the only things that gave evidence that the man laying in the bed was still breathing. Sherlock’s complexion was wan, past his normal pale and the purple shadows under his eyes told the story of his lack of sleep and the state of his health. His breaths were shallow and as John sat on top of the duvet next to him, he tried to reconcile the Sherlock here with the memory of how he was just months before.

The cancer had come out of nowhere, when Sherlock had gotten himself injured on a case-the exams had come up with some abnormal tissue growth, and from there it had turned into three months of chemo and trying to kick the cancer out on it’s arse until the doctors determined that there simply wasn’t anything else they could do except hope for a miracle.

And that’s when the waiting had set in, when Sherlock and John had started counting the days. For a time, Sherlock could still do everything he wanted-experiments, cases, the violin. And then he started getting weaker, unable to walk without a cane. John stood by Sherlock watching the mad detective he’d fallen in love with become an invalid. Sherlock was bitter, for a time, but as time went on and John had stayed, Sherlock lashed out less. They still did cases, sometimes, but it was often from the flat, Lestrade bringing in countless files with photos and descriptions. On the bad days, the ones where Sherlock could barely get out of bed, there were cold cases, and books-John had read Sherlock through the classics and countless texts on poison, chemistry, and anatomy.

The rustling of sheets pulled John out of his thoughts and back into the bedroom of 221B; Sherlock was waking up, stirring slightly and eyes opening, still as fascinating as the day John had met him. In the dim light they shined a light grey, specks of blue and green finding their way into the mix, pupils dilated enough to make the color a thin band, but no less captivating. John didn’t look away, trying to tell Sherlock in the language of eye contact that John loved him, and he wasn’t leaving, and that in the last days Sherlock and John would find London’s deepest secrets, that they would look at the stars together and discover the constellations, that they would visit the coast and watch the endless waves pull the sand in and deliver it back. And, when it was time, that they would find a way to go out with a bang, like fireworks in a pitch black sky.

And Sherlock, being the mind reader he was, smiled in reply, eyes simply saying _yes_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for all this angst but I just finished watching Third Star. Forgive me.


	26. Getting Married

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a short chapter today, guys. I had a Parade's End marathon today (meaning I watched the whole thing) and yeah....I've got WW1 AUs running around in my head now.

John cleared his throat and fiddled with his sleeve, shifting slightly before looking up at Sherlock. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “I mean, it is a bit sentimental.”  
Sherlock met his eyes in the bathroom mirror and continued re-tying the silk tie hanging from his neck. “John, at this point I have accepted that some sentiment, in the case of you, is inevitable and even welcome.” He finished and turned around to cup John’s cheek, thumb brushing softly against his cheekbone. “I’m sure. Although I have to admit,” he said, smiling wryly, “the possibility that someone here is a murderer certainly made things more interesting.”  
John chuckled and pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s lips before fixing his tie and heading to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob and looked back at Sherlock, this utterly daft man who solved crimes for a living, standing there in his suit and tie, hands clasped behind his back, ready to get married to John because he was okay with the emotion it showed and because someone at the ceremony was suspected of murdering someone. And despite it all, or perhaps because of it, John was ridiculously happy. He grinned at the love he felt, a warmth in the middle of his chest, and Sherlock smiled back.  
“How did I ever get this lucky?” John asked him they walked down the hall to the room where the ceremony was taking place.  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and caught up to him, grabbing John’s hand in his own. “Because you said ‘amazing’ and came when I said dangerous, of course.”  
John laughed. “Of course.”


	27. On One Of Their Birthdays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a warning for some suggestions of suicide in this one.

“It’s the day I was born, John, not a national holiday!” Sherlock moaned, flinging one arm dramatically over his face. “You are making far too much out of it.”

“Nonsense,” John called from the kitchen (he was making cake. _Cake,_ of all things!). “The day you were born is very important to me.”

Sherlock snorted. “Why?”

John moved to the doorway of the kitchen, holding a bowl between his arm and waist, stirring the batter with a wooden spoon as he looked at Sherlock reproachfully, one eyebrow raised. “C’mon now, you should no better than to ask that sort of question,” he said, moving back into the kitchen. “If you hadn’t been born, I’d probably being lying in some cemetery somewhere.”

Sherlock snorted again and closed his eyes. “I know it’s hard for you to believe that something happened in your life that wasn’t connected to me, but I had nothing to do with you surviving that shot in Afghanistan,” he drawled.

“Not what I meant, Sherlock,” John called.

Sherlock felt his brow wrinkle as he thought back through their relationship. _When would my existence help save John instead of put his life in danger?_ With a start, his eyes flew open and a small gasp of air left his lungs. Flinging himself off the couch he strode into the kitchen and smacked a hand on the table, causing John to look up from pouring the cake batter (chocolate) into a pan.

“What _did_ you mean, then?” Sherlock demanded ( _Surely not-)_. John just looked at him and put the cake in the oven, and set the timer (30 minutes) before facing Sherlock again.

“I meant,” he said softly. “That you didn’t just save me from boredom when you came along.” John walked over to Sherlock’s side of the table, being sure not to knock any of the apparatus off, and stood in front of him. “And had I not met you,” he continued, looking up at Sherlock, down at his clenched fist, then up again, “had I not met you, I wouldn’t have stuck around much longer.” He finished on a breath, the words seeming to float in the air to Sherlock’s ears. Sherlock moved quickly and pulled John into a rough hug, burying his nose in the soft hair and clinging to his jumper (striped today, thick black and white ones). John’s arms came up to hug him back as Sherlock inhaled the scent of John (cheap shampoo, tea, and-today at least-cake).

“So don’t dismiss your birthday, yeah?” John whispered in his ear. Sherlock nodded, eyes shut tightly. John’s arms tightened for a moment, and then he pulled away, a smile on his face.

“Now then,” he said. “Shall we open presents? I know Mycroft brought one over day before yesterday.”

Sherlock made a sound of displeasure. “Mycroft,” he muttered. “Probably something completely inane and useless, like a tie.”

John laughed and walked into the living room. “Well, let’s find out.”

 


	28. Doing Something Ridiculous

“Sherlock what the bloody hell-!” John exclaimed, peering into the kettle, then back at Sherlock, who was flipping through the paper with an air of nonchalance.

“Experiment,” he said flatly, and then made a soft noise of disgust. “There is absolutely nothing interesting in the news anymore John,” he declared, and flung the newspaper onto the table.

John turned back to the kettle. “But there’s onions. And _eyeballs_. In the bloody kettle!”

“Don’t be melodramatic, John.”

John glared at Sherlock. “That’s a laugh,” he scoffed, “with you and your cheekbones and dressing gowns and _experiments_. It’s the kettle, Sherlock! You’re not allowed to have experiments in the kettle!”

Sherlock flapped a hand at John but then, realizing that John was not satisfied, threw his hands up in the air in mock surrender. “Fine,” he groused. “No experiments in the kettle.”

John nodded decisively. “And you’ll buy me a new one?”

“What? Why?” Sherlock demanded.

John rolled his eyes. Honestly, that man sometimes. “Because this one will taste like onions for the rest of my life, Sherlock,” he said calmly. He paused for a moment, then picked up the kettle and set it on the table by Sherlock, who looked at John and raised an eyebrow. “A compromise,” John suggested. “This is your experiment kettle-do with it what you like. Then, you buy me a new kettle and that one is the tea kettle, for making tea and nothing. Else.”

A slow smile lit up Sherlock’s eyes, and he reached out to run a finger over the surface of his new piece of equipment. “Deal,” he said, and got up. He stepped over to John to place a small kiss on his cheek, then walked out of the kitchen towards the bedroom.

“Where are you going?” John called after him. Sherlock’s head popped round the corner, an obvious sort of look on his face.

“To get dressed,” he stated, “and then to buy a kettle. You _do_ want tea this morning, yes?”

John grinned. “Oh yes, no complaints from me.”

 

While Sherlock shrugged on his coat John looked up at him from his chair and smiled. “You know I love you, right?” he asked.

Sherlock looked at John and rolled his eyes as he put on his scarf. “Yes John,” he said, opening the door. “The sentiment is shared.”


	29. Doing Something Sweet

John was sitting in his chair reading the sports section of the paper when Sherlock emerged from the bedroom, wrapped in a sheet with flyaway hair and squinting at the morning light coming in through the windows.

“Morning,” John greeted.

Sherlock made a noise of displeasure. “It is certainly that,” he agreed unhappily.

John huffed in amusement and went back to the paper. Sherlock huffed in annoyance at the world and flopped onto the sofa, still managing to not get himself tangled in the sheet. John pretended to still be reading, secretly amused by Sherlock’s shifting and occasional growls of displeasure when he couldn’t get as comfortable as he wanted to be. Finally giving up on his charade (football could wait), John turned his full attention on the pile of limbs and cotton on the couch.

“Is this one of those days where you sit about and share your discontent with everything until I come over and snog you and then let you sleep on me like a starfish?” he asked.

Sherlock turned over and looked at John, eyes still slightly puffy from tiredness. “Maybe,” he admitted, then thought for a moment. “Some tea would be nice. And toast.”

John raised an eyebrow. “And I suppose you want me to make them?”

The only response was a lazy shrug of the shoulders, which John had learned to take as _yes, but I won’t say so_. With a sigh of resignation and amusement, John got up and ambled into the kitchen, popping some bread in the toaster and setting the kettle to boil.

A few minutes later he poured the tea and buttered the toast, pausing before taking it into the living room to drizzle some honey on top. (John had discovered some time ago that honey was almost like a comfort food for Sherlock and John took advantage of the man’s willingness to eat it in order to get him to consume more food. It’d worked so far, but mostly with breakfast.) After drizzling some of the sweet golden liquid on, John walked over to the couch and held out the cup and plate, almost like an offering. Which, in a way, it was-one of love and caring and sweet things on late mornings after cases.

Sherlock sat up and took the proffered toast and tea, looking up at John.

“Thank you,” he said slowly, and thoughtfully. John blinked in surprise, and smiled.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, then nudged Sherlock’s shoulder. “Now budge over. Before snogging comes crap telly.”


	30. Doing Something Hot

The flat was filled with the drone of fans set up around the rooms, whirring blades slicing through the thick, sticky air and pushing it through the flat. John sat in his chair in his pants and a tank top, using a section of the paper as a fan in a weak attempt to cool himself down. His back was already slick with sweat, despite having taken a shower less than an hour before. John sighed-it had been two weeks of this crazy heat, and he was sick of it.

He was jerked out of his thoughts by a crash from the kitchen, followed by a string of muttered curses from Sherlock. John twisted in his chair to see that the man had dropped a beaker full of some purple liquid, causing it to shatter on the floor.

“That’s not corrosive or poisonous or anything else bad, is it?” John asked wearily.

Sherlock glared at him. “No John,” he snapped. “Perfectly safe. Perfectly dull and _boring._ ” He finished on a growl, picking up another beaker and throwing it to the floor.

John raised his eyebrows. “Smashing things won’t make it better, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shot at dark look at him and stalked into the living room, collapsing onto the floor as if he were suddenly a puddle melting. “I hate this blasted heat John. It’s turning my mind to mush!”

John hummed in agreement. “It is definitely getting old.”

Sherlock twisted his upper body so that he was looking at John, the right side of his face smashed into the floor. “Can we do that thing with the ice again? The one you let me do yesterday?” he inquired, a hint of curiosity in  his voice.

John grinned. “Oh yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this is it! the last day of the challenge-it feels really weird. Thank you everyone who left kudos or comments or even just viewed this-it really means a lot! :) I've gotten lots of ideas from this experience for more fics and hopefully I'll be able to write some of them over the summer.


End file.
